I notice Abby struggling next to me, her body shaking as she fights gravity. “You’ve got this, Abbs.”
She grumbles. “My core is shit after two kids.”
Two kids. I completely forgot she was a mom. Damn, she runs a boutique, handles a farm, raises two girls, and she still finds time to prioritize her health.
The class continues as the instructor puts us in new positions. I feel the burn and the soft ache in my muscles as I challenge myself. There’s quiet between songs, the lull where breaths echo louder than the music. It’s then I feel it. The cracking as my body shakes. I wish this ache was just from the strain of holding my body, but it's from the weight pressing on me everywhere else.
Silo Bay. My lawyer's latest emails. The contract I’m desperate to break free from. Grieving Mom. Jett’s eyes on my skin. His hands grazing me on the dance floor. Our history.
Jett. Jett. Jett. Goddamnit, I can’t escape him.
I blink hard, willing the burn behind my eyes to disappear. But the tears sting anyway as I sniffle.
“Wren?” Greer’s voice is soft, too soft. I glance up in the mirror and find her green eyes watching me, concern etched across her flawless, makeup-free face.
I offer a soft smile.
“Allergies,” I whisper, swiping quickly at the corner of my eye. My voice wobbles, and I know she knows I’m full of shit.
But she offers me a subtle nod and a tight-lipped smile.
“Final set,” the instructor barks. “Make it your best, and let’s end this class strong!”
The next song plays, the tune delicate and hopeful. I recognize it as “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves. My chest aches with every pulse. My muscles tremble and my walls crack a little more, but I hold on. Barely. But I don’t break.
By the time we collapse into stretches, Abby is groaning in misery. We laugh at her grunts and grumbles as she bitches about the class—in a playful, respectful way.
Greer eyes me again. I see the moment she wants to press about what she witnessed, but I don’t give her a chance.
I clap my hands, pasting on the brightest smile I can muster. “Brunch?”
“Hell yeah,” Saylor agrees as Greer yells, “Mimosas!”
“Have you been to The Landing yet?” Saylor asks as we cross Main Street.
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’ve only made a pit stop at the coffee shop.”
“Which led you to me,” Saylor gushes, linking her arm through mine. It’s oddly familiar, but back then, she was six or seven, not twenty.
Greer holds open the heavy navy door as we step inside. My eyes widen as I take in the sleek cafe, with its black-and-white tables and booths and jewel-toned accents. Old newspaper articles are blown up in wallpaper against the far wall.
It feels good to be home, surrounded by friends, and to know I’m safe thousands of miles away fromhim.
“Hi, ladies,” the high school-aged hostess greets us.
“Hi,” Saylor greets. “Can we do a patio table for four?”
The hostess nods as she gathers menus and leads us outside to one of the round wrought-iron tables that neatly line the concrete patio.
She waits patiently while we get settled, the scrape of our chairs finally stopping before she fills our waters and lets us know she'll be back for our orders shortly.
I tug at my cropped cardigan, my hands smoothing down my one-piece athletic suit, and enjoy the late April sun beating down on us with the slight breeze as we all study our menus.
Everything sounds delicious, and my stomach growls as I read over each menu item—savory eggs and sweet pastries. I could eat one of everything.
Our server appears and takes our drink orders: bottomless mimosas for two, a salted caramel iced latte for Saylor, and one oat milk latte for Abby.
“Can we also get an order of carrot cake donut holes?” Greer adds.
